Rolling in the Deep
by Morgul-squirrel
Summary: Words were perilous and deadly; the cause of great pain and suffering they had proven to be. But for all their peril, coveted they were for there was no greater path to forgetfulness and momentary bliss. And surely there was nothing sweeter nor deadlier than a conversation with the dark. But the dark talked from all sides of its mouth, with many voices, and different faces.


**Author's Note: I believe these early chapter may bear some semblance to the original. I mean it is largely the same story. But we'll see what happens. I know it's been a thousand years, and I really do hope this proves to have been worth the wait. **

**Trigger Warnings: some mild physical abuse, and some rather blatant psychological warfare. **

**Disclaimer: Do not own.**

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**In the Garden of Good and Evil**

With a feeble jerk of atrophied muscles Brenine comes to. She stares anxiously into the darkness of her cell, uncertain of what's woken her; if it was anything at all. After a few quiet moments she rouses herself and climbs to her knees. Everything's harder with her arms immobilized behind her, and fighting a wave of light-headedness, she approaches the spot where they leave water, thinking that maybe, they had come with water and food, and for some inexplicable reason choosing not to wake her. But her hope is unfounded and she finds no water, and her throat burns in its absence.

Less and less they've come to hassle her, and less and less they've come to see that she is given sustenance. When her arms had been bound that had been the beginning of the end.

Water. There was never enough water, and the heavy collar chafing her neck had made it worse.

At one point, bruises blossomed in a florid mosaic of burst capillaries and abused flesh. She can hear the clinking of the thin chains that dangled from it when they had taken her out of her dark little cell, and she had followed quietly and obediently where they had willed her to go, having learned long before that fighting brought pain. Maybe she'd been careless, or maybe something in her mannerisms had been displeasing, or perhaps she hadn't been quiet enough or hasty enough, or maybe she'd forgotten after such unbearable solitude that neither silence nor good behaviour guaranteed a reprieve, and that day there had been none.

The lead and her collar had become weapons in an orc's cruel play, and her neck had suffered for it. And she'd suffered every movement of harsh metal against her skin until she was returned at last to the capricious dark sanctuary of her cell, and by then she hadn't been able to stand its hideous weight one moment longer.

She'd pulled and yanked at it, clawed and torn at it, unable to remove it, and eventually she'd been found by the gaolers, nails darkened by her own blood, and her throat an ugly mess of welts and scratches. Thinking that she'd taken ill, they had immobilized her arms behind her, and abandoned her to suffer with the heinous collar scoring lines of fire across her throat every time she swallowed.

The bruises had healed. The scratches faded. And they still see fit to leave her thusly- a safeguard against further mutilation, and she's an animal reduced to eating face first from the bowl, and reliant upon what scant mercy exists to see a water skin placed at her lips.

The grate of a door on its hinges, jolts her into action, and she scuttles back, thumping against the back wall, and quietly snarling at the sudden jolt of pain through her shoulders.

Brenine sags there, caught between fear and the desperate hope that at last, at last they might give her water. If they would but give her water, everything else would be worth it. She bows her head, waiting, hoping, and horribly afraid, as a handful of footsteps make themselves louder.

Her heart thumps loud in her ears, and her whole body buckles in aversion as they reach her door.

Then they pass on, and she body slackens, as a pitiable whine rises up to set her parched throat aflame. Sickening horror claims her, and pulls her down.

There's no water. They've forgotten. They've forgotten, and she curls in tight ball against the cold harsh stone floor and shuts her eyes against the world.

_The sun kisses her skin as she basks in the garden fountain of her childhood home in Osgilliath. Her sister giggles and splashes her, and she opens her mouth trying to catch it._

_The garden smells of gardenias, and is filled with fluttering butterflies and bird song, and they contentedly wallow in the cool water, assured in the strength of their city's walls, that skies above will remain forever blue. And that the Dark Lord will never triumph as long Boromir is captain. _

_She splashes her sister, smiling in conspiratorial secrecy, knowing their parents would be irate to find their esteemed noble daughters floundering in the garden fountain in their handsome dresses. _

_But the day is unusually hot, and Brenine considers it a worthy risk, as she tips her head back to catch the water cascading from the beak of the dolphin. _

_A shadow passes across the sun, and she looks up, then around, drink suddenly forgotten in the wake of an ill feeling blossoming in her chest. _

_Obliviously her sister frolics, pretending to be like the stone dolphin spilling water across Brenine's back, as she rises to stand. _

_Her skirts cling and stick to her as she steps over the fountain's lip to stand on the cobble path. _

_A cold wind whips at her-_

In the dark Brenine jolts to wakefulness, and the world has gone cold. Emaciated muscles spasm vainly to in fitful shivers, and she whines as the darkness about her congeals, clotting with malice.

Frozen to the bone, she squeezes her eyes shut, and all the greater she feels the dark bend over her like a wave rearing up, daring to break and crush her. Tighter she huddles, as ever it grows taller, and more oppressive, and her arms spasm as her curled position pulls them beyond the point of endurance, but she's blind to it, blind to everything, save a yawning cleft icy void opening before her, and Brenine's sure she's going to die.

Death has come to claim her, and she's doing to die alone, lost, forgotten, and her family will never know what happened. But that's what's happening. That's why they haven't given her water. And when she's found alive, she'll be finished, and for a brief moment a tiny flicker of some cold 'other' some forgotten remnant of what or who she'd been rears its head, and says: 'good riddance.'

The door's bolt slides and a squeak of horror clicks dryly past her lips, before she falls utterly still and terribly silent.

A menace of such profound horror looms over her, it casts a visible shadow across her mind, growing larger with very passing second, and like spider legs it crawls across every memory she has of warmth.

It stares down at her, Brenine can feel the weight of its eyes, glowering down at her from under a hood she knows is there. Overcome by the urge to flee, her muscles twitch and judder, in a pitiful attempt to do just that.

"So this is the great strength of Numenor in these latter days," a cold voice said, and the words are punctuated by a soft popping noise. "The king will disappointed to hear it."

The insult falls flat as Brenine's heart stutters to a stop and her guts twist in such voracious hope it leaves her breathless and wide eyed.

It's the noise of a water skin, and the mere thought of water elicits noisome pants of desperate need, and her chest judders around a barely stifled moan when she hears the wraith approach with that precious water in his hand.

Eyes blown wide she stares at the wall unable to look in his direction, and it's only when he stops an arm's breath away that the prisoner dares to move. It's a flutter of tense muscles uncoiling and recoiling in uncertainty.

Before she can do more, she's struck with cold and wet, and a startled raspy yelp sends lighting down her throat, and then she's awkwardly shifting as it spills over her, plastering her tunic to her chest and shoulders. Brenine tilts her head up as she had done her dream, and mewls as water strikes her eyes and nose. It runs through her hair, and drips soiled by sweat and grime down her back conjuring goose bumps along her arms. Some hits the floor, but the water-stream is always just out of reach, just beyond her lips, and then the water fall stops, the skin emptied over top of her, and there's no more. In sickening horror she knows he's done this intentionally.

She flinches as the water skin hits her shoulder and then the floor.

Wet and cold, she's slaked in water, and to save herself she bows her head, trying to grab hold of her tunic with her teeth. It's there! It's right there! But the hem is too low and awkwardly she tilts her head trying to catch the fabric nearer her shoulder with chin and cheek. Frustrated snorts of horror and greed huff through her nose as this too proves futile, but she doesn't stop. She can't! If she can only get it.

If….

Silent and unmoving the wraith stands over her, watching her vain struggles in terrible mirth. A smirk plays about his unseen mouth as he drinks in the sight of such a pitiful creature. To think that this mewling quim shared lineage with the Morgul Lord, and for a moment he almost rejects the notion, because even he has more respect for the captain than that. But it's true. History and reason tell him it is, and he supposes looking at her, he _can_ see some glimmering vestige of elven power glinting in her fea.

He scoffs in bitter scorn as the prisoner's frustrated huffs turn into dry shuddering hiccoughs. He smiles as she keens sharply, almost managing to catch the hem in her teeth before it shifts just beyond her ability to grasp.

The old Angmarim king would be furious to find him here, but he's come regardless, because they've been gone awhile, hunting Hobbits across the wide world, and he wished to know whether his lord's newest toy had survive his absence.

And so it seems she has, and may yet, another day or two…perhaps, but little longer if they fail to bring her water.

Brenine's strength deserts her, and she slumps utterly spent, shuddering in such broken desolate hopelessness, and deciding he's seen all that's worth his time, the wraith turns to leave.

The cold is drifting away, and she know he's leaving, and something bold, furious, and stupid blazes in her chest, and she wiggles about, catching the flat damp leather of the water skin in her toes.

With a grunt she kicks the water skin at him, and it lands harmlessly somewhere in the dark.

It's only when she feels the air crackle with ice that it dawns on her what it is she's just done, and to whom she's done it. Chilling dread crawls under her skin itching like lice, and her vindictive rage evaporates, overcome by dread. Her back thumps against the wall, and she blindly stares wide-eyed into the darkness, as a shadow far greater glares at her from within.

Lip curled in a sneer the wraith moves, furious he's been assaulted by a piece of Tark filth, and all the more so because she's 'special,' and the king had declared that she should live if their two year absence from Minas Morgul hadn't killed her.

He snags the collar about her throat, and hauls her from the floor. She yelps and whines, mewls of terror bleeding into the space between them.

Brenine struggles to find her footing, to find some semblance of balance to take the pressure from her neck, and his grip on her shifts, and she flounders gagging on the knuckles curled into her trachea.

The wraith's other hand is gentle, and tenderly he caresses her cheek. The smile that curls his lips is greased in malice and vile.

She jerks and wriggles as he draws her near, and in the dark her eyes are shut in terror that rolls from her sweet waves. He inhales as if he's discovered a sweet wine, and his dark eyes glint with unseen cruelty, as whispers in the prisoner's ear, words sweet as any lover's. But all the harder his knuckles dig into her neck and truly the slave begins to panic, sputtering for air.

"I'll remember that."

He drops her, and she lands with a thud at his feet, coughing and sucking in air. His foot stops just shy of colliding with her chest. Too much damage inflicted and the king, or his mongrel dogsbody will guess who's visited. Self-preservation stays his wrath, and with snarl, he turns on his heel- snatching the water skin from the floor- and storms out, leaving the prisoner to rot.

It's long after the painful spasms have ceased to torment her constrained arms, long after the aching horror has passed, that she pursues the water soaked into her clothes.

At some point her teeth catch the sodden fabric, and she sucks what water she can from her ratty tunic, ignoring the feel of grit on her tongue, or the taste of sweat.

In the moment nothing else matters, and the moment is over far too soon. Every stretch of her neck and bow of her head, sends sparks of pain through the numbed muscles of her arms. Pain and exhaustion bowl her over and she slumps where she kneels, sodden filthy clothes clenched in her teeth as breathless, frustrated sobs, shuddered from her thin chest, as desperation curdled into horrible defeat.

There was so little water, so far beyond Brenine's reach, and she couldn't get it all-couldn't get enough, and even if she could have, did she truly want to? Was it worth it when there was nothing but endless dark and torment to look forward to?

Miserable and cold, she lays on her side, as pain scuds through her arms, and she grits her teeth as despair, pain, and isolation undo her.

Her quiet dry pitiful sobs gave way to silence, and her misery fades to dull numbness and blackness that pulses with a flash of pain, as a muscle in one of her arms twitches in futile of protest of its captivity.

In between waking and dreaming, she wanders lost, searching for warmth. She wants to be warm, and somewhere there exists such a thing. And tenaciously she hunts it down, stumbling through the ethereal cobwebs of her feverish dreams.

XXXX

Cold comes creeping back, only to fade into numbness. Brenine sinks once more into her void. Curled where she lays, she has no desire to move, and perhaps she may no longer be capable to doing so.

There was so much dark, and it was so far away, but graciously it was dragging her along, away from cold and scary things, until she knew nothing else but the blackness once more.

A dull thud rattles. A serpent hisses and she's in her mother's gardens, and her brothers are teasing a little brown snake with a stick. The sky cracks open with thunder and she covered her ears in horror, as it burns in her ears. Her eyes open, and she hisses as they smart and burn as light pierces them.

She whines as a hand hauls her up, and she sags stiffly in the heavy grip upon her, unable to open her eyes for fear of the light that has intruded upon her abyssal sanctuary.

"Nar-" says a voice, and she claps her hands to her ears desperate to hear no more.

A voice, with a lilting strange accent and an icy chill speaks in the black, and even through her hands she hears the hiss. Needles prickle down her spine, and her heart beats erratically, as the darkness about her grows too dark, the horror too real, and she feels herself dragged downward and submerged in the sheer hopelessness of it. In the orc's grip she falls torpid and limp, awaiting death. She is going to die, and she has no doubts.

Alone, far from home, far from her family, the warmth of the sun, everything she has ever known or loved, she is going to die. They'd never find her. They'd never know. And one day soon they'd perish too. The darkness would get them, and they'd all drown choking and suffocating on their despair.

Her face crumples in a silent sob as it's lifted, and the lip of a water skin is pushed against her lips. With what horror she is violently betrayed by the needs of her dehydrated and dying body! Yet, as precious liquid touches her tongue she recoils with a cry.

Scalding hot and burning she smacks the wall with a thud, only to be seized and wrenched upward, and that terrible horrible drink is forced against her mouth.

Fingers dig into her cheeks as she refuses. She shuts her eyes against the nails digging furrows in her flesh and the acid burning against her chapped lips. She struggles feebly and pathetically, until a punch to her middle drives the air whooping from her lungs. Cruel fingers bruise her nose. The waterskin is forced past her teeth, and acrid hot liquid fills her mouth.

Gagging and choking against it, Brenine tries not to drink, but it she can't spit out all of it, and it drags burning furrows down her gullet to pool molten in her stomach. Then they release her, and she scrambles away, thumping against her wall, and curling her legs up to protect herself. Shuddering and crying, her head grows light and heavy as fire begins to fill her temples and flow through her limbs, staving off the cold.

Words-indistinguishable words scrape darkly against her ears, and the cruel orange torch disappears, leaving its brilliant phosphorescent mirage staining her vision and warping the shadow the shad around her. Her head swims, and strength deserts her, leaving Brenine slumped against the abyssal cool stone.

Her eyes shut and she drifts into warmth, only to twitch at the sound of sniffing. Too loud and abrasive it crapes aside the silence, and itches in her ears. A shadow she feels but can't see settles with a chill before her.

A hand of ice and soft velvet touches her cheek.

"Hush. Hush now." The hand drags to a stop at her throat, and the voice speaking to her is soft, amiable, gentle, and accented. She trembles where she ssit, and if she makes a noise of fright she can't hear it over the desperate pulse of blood, because he says it again.

"Hush. All is well now."

The shadow moves, sniffing, and the hand on her neck departs.

He reaches around her, examining the bonds entombing her arms by touch alone.

The wraiths pulls away, rubbing gore between his fingers, and sniffs relishing the scent of blood so sweet, and with cruel avarice he observes his fingertips.

Like the crack of a whip Brenine flinches as a water skin is suddenly unplugged.

"Cold, tired, lonely little thing that thou art. Here. I know thou art thirsty."

She presses herself deeper into the stone, breathing ragged pants of fear, as fire swims sickeningly in her stomach. Her arms quiver, and she stares.

"Tis only water. I promise, Sweetling. Drink. All will be well."

Her lips open and she silently mouths the word no. She won't drink it. She won't trust him. All was not well! And she sees his lies as one sees white clouds in a blue sky.

"I know," he says. "I know. Such horror thou hath been privy to. But it shall soon be over. Such a small, cold, soft little thing." His fingers trail over her itching dirty scalp. "They have treated thee so cruel. I know."

His voice was so soft, and so full of lies, but she can't speak. She can't do more than sit and stare wide-eyed into the dark. His voice and his hand are all that is keeping her bound to the waking world.

"It has come to its end, but now Sweetling, thou must drink, and thou must sleep."

"Gentle now." He carefully presses it to her lip, and she mewls in a mix of fear and need, torn between the impulse to drink whatever he was trying to force on her, and quivering the need to flee. "Come now, there's no need for such recalcitrance whilst in good company." Dark fabric shifts unseen.

"We are in good company, are we not?" There's an edge to his voice. A warning that he is not be crossed nor tried, and fear bleats its warning in her chest. The shadows lengthen as she hesitates, and ice crawls along her flesh.

At last she nods, no more than a spasmodic jerk of her head, and the darkness about her ebbs.

"That is good. I would hate to think my friendship is unwanted." His voiced smiles from the abyss, and the deathly warning is gone without a trace. "But come, I know thou suffer a most terrible thirst. Come slake it, and know such a thing will not happen again. Hence forth thou shalt be slaked, glutted, and warm, as thou ought."

And still the wraith's voice smiles. It smiles with all its grizzly fangs, and her head jerks reflexively away from the skin.

The wraith's dark eyes narrow invisible in their hood.

"I don't care." His voice drops and a bitter note of melancholy deadens the joviality of his tone as he continues. "I don't care if you suffer. It matters not to me if you die today, tomorrow, or next week. Were it my decision I might grant you the release you yearn most for, but you belong not to me. And the one to whom you belong has decreed you are to live, and so you will drink."

Her fingers convulse and pins and needs trace her arms with their fretful flutter. Goose bumps prickle along her thigh, still she hesitates, fearful of trickery, frightened of the fire spreading leaden through her exhausted limbs.

"I wish to be generous, but you must let me." His morose voice is cold. "I pray you unbend your pride and see the wit in maintaining civility. Lest I fear you find the alternative unpalatable."

The water skin grazes her bottom lip, and the world teeters on a razor edge of silence. Fear drums loudly in her chest, as she stares at the shade from which the voice has spoken. Gnawed by doubt and gripped in fear she nods. What good would resilience be? If it made no difference then what did it truly matter? But her pride churned in feeble protest too late, as cool clear water sweeps fire and silt from her tongue.

Greedily she drinks, snorting and choking as instinct urges her to live. She leans forward, chasing after him as he withdraws. He places a hand on her shoulder, both to steady and restrain her, all the while telling her how good she is and chiding her for her overzealous aggression. Her teeth clench around the cap when he pulls away, unwilling to yield so easily what they both know to be an empty water skin.

There has to be more. There needs to be more. She wants more, and right then water and its acquisition is all she can think of.

"Please," she croaks as at last she lets it go. "Please."

Her voice is nothing more than the hollow scrape of dusty syllables across cracked lips. The need for water, brings tears to her eyes. It just wasn't enough. It wasn't enough, and miserably she stares into dark desperately clinging to the tenuous hope that maybe- maybe- despite all her misgivings his promises might be true.

"That was not so bad." He pats her cheek as one pets a dog, and her stomach churns in bitter disdain. "I will see more water brought to thee. In the meantime rest. He'll be pleased to know thou hast endured, as for nearly a year now my lord hath harboured hoped to speak with thee."

Whether it was her own body succumbing to exhaustion or an outside will compelling her to sleep Brenine couldn't have said. All she knew was he was there to guide her to her side, so that she might doze.

The ropes around her arms frayed, snapping and tearing, and she sighs, pulling them in a comfortable position, relieved to be unbound at last.

Then his voice talks over her.

"To think, tomorrow shall begin a new day for thee." There's laughter in his voice, as he jaunts toward the door, but she sees nothing of him in the dark. She only feels the lifting of shadow from her mind and heart as she closes her eyes.

As the door clang shuts, the nerves in her arms spark painfully with fire, her body curls and convulses around them as strained muscles judder in the wake of lightning strikes. He leaves her suffering in her misery, secure in the knowledge his king's prisoner will live.

In the distance a bird whistles merrily, and she miserably presses her face into the stone, until if proves too much and the birdsong along with her mind fade into oblivion.


End file.
